Living in a Dream World
by RachaelLikesYaoi
Summary: Sherlock and John haven't talked to each other in almost five months. The reason being they had a heated discussion and John stopped coming around. What John finds once he comes to 221B Baker Street is the remnants of his once so bright and exuberant friend. John helps the man and stays with him, both of them needing to discuss what is on their minds but neither of them starting.


John walked into the flat more than a little bit upset. "Sherlock," he barked as he looked at the small crackling fire, the entire living room area trashed. He ignored the broken apart chair that was Sherlock's and the skull that the man seemed to adore stabbed through with a knife. He should have noticed that something was wrong right away, there was no gentle thrum of an experiment going on in the kitchen and there was no sign of life anywhere. "Sherlock I know you're here. Lestrade said you've got nothing on." The blonde man clenched his hands into tight fists and walked towards the detective's room. His entire body was trembling and he just couldn't seem to get over what had just happened to him. John pushed the door open for Sherlock's room and his eyes grew wide in surprise.

The blonde wasn't surprised by the clutter of seemingly everything scattered about Sherlock's room. He wasn't surprised by the broken violin discarded in the corner or his sheet music ripped to shreds. John's eyes didn't look to the holes in the walls or the expiring food in the dressers that was stripped of all of its clothing. He didn't look at how Sherlock was completely naked and was soaked in a layer of sweat. His eyes completely ignored all of it and his stomach clenched as they laid on Sherlock's distorted face.

How long had it been since he had seen his friend? Obviously long enough. Sherlock was thrown about his bed, the blankets and pillows discarded on the ground and ripped apart like the rest of his room. The great detective looked small, his veins popping around his arms. John stepped forward towards the bed, his eyes flickering away from Sherlock's body, that seemed to be in stasis, and found the syringe. The syringe that was probably the root of all of the destruction.

Anger boiled over in John and he grit his teeth. "Wake the fuck up!" He yelled as he grabbed the syringe and shoved the detective. Sherlock stirred and blinked several times as he looked at John. The soldier felt his heart drop as he met his friend's eyes. They used to be the brightest shade of grey, or blue, or green, or a mix of all three when he was really excited. Now though, they were dark, dull, and dead. His pupils were blown wide and his face was persperating. "What," he started in a growl. "In the name of sanity, is this?" He held up the syringe and threw it at Sherlock. The black haired man, whose hair was greasy and strewn about, curls barely anything, winced and tried to move his body. He lolled his head back as if to fall back asleep and John shoved at him again.

He was so angry. He thought he could trust Sherlock to be alone. He thought he could go and live his life with Mary and it would be as normal as possible. But no, he couldn't. He couldn't because Sherlock was an idiot. John watched Sherlock shift his body and he tried to sit up, but his arms buckled under his weight and he fell back onto the bed.

"What," Sherlock said, his voice small and broken, not like it had always been in front of John. "What are you doing here?" John huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. Suddenly, his problems didn't seem so bad as Sherlock's. He clenched his jaw and shook his head.

"I'm here to fix you," he murmured, his voice hard. "What did you take?" He moved the needle back to the bedside table and leaned over to look at Sherlock's eyes more closely. The detective let out a shuddered breath and licked his dry lips. He cracked a smile and looked at John.

"What didn't I take?" He answered as John gently touched his face. He closed his eyes and John delicately moved them back open so he could look.

"Don't move," he grumbled as he narrowed his eyes in concentration. "You're not going to be taking anything ever again." John moved away from Sherlock and exited the room, leaving the detective alone. He walked back into the room several minutes later with the first aid kit that he used to keep in the kitchen and opened it up. The syringe was gone and that was when he noted that it was next to Sherlock on the small table. He let out another sigh and looked towards the black haired man. "You couldn't even have the decency to get your own needle?" He shook his head. "Unbelievable." He looked towards Sherlock and he frowned. He reached out and touched the man's curls and exhaled. "You need a shower."

"You need to go back to Mary," Sherlock retorted as he frowned back at John, lifting his arm in an attempt to knock the other's hand away. "You've obviously had a fight and if you go now you'll-"

"Shut up Sherlock," John said as he smacked his head. The detective winced and he let out a small cry. John knew his body was fragile in this state, but he wasn't going to go easy on him. He was still pissed, even if the man possibly had an overdose. "We're going to get you in the bath." He pressed his hand against Sherlock's forehead and wasn't surprised that it was blazing hot. "And you're going to eat something, preferably chicken soup." Sherlock rolled his eyes and John wrapped his arms around the detectives waist. He lifted him up and slipped his arms into a formation so that he could lift Sherlock off the bed. "Can you walk?"

"I'm not sure," he murmured as he tried to navigate his feet to lay flat on the floor. Once they were John lifted him fully and stood, Sherlock's entire weight leaning against him.

"Well you're going to have to," John stated as he rested his hand on Sherlock's hip. He trudged them out of the room, Sherlock's feet fumbling about as he tried to pull them to the bathroom. "Is the bathroom in working order?"

"I believe so, I haven't been there in days," Sherlock said as his breath caught, probably because he hadn't moved in days. John felt that if he gripped Sherlock too hard, or made him walk too far without rest that the man would shatter beneath him. It truly upset the soldier because Sherlock was the strongest man he knew. Sherlock was the man who neglected his body but always seemed to have a strong central core. The man that John was moving to sit in the tub was not that man, he was just a shell and John had no idea why he was. He started the water and watched as Sherlock moved to fold in on himself, shivering slightly because of the porcelain tub. His knees were brought up to his face and his arms were wrapped loosely around his legs. He let out a stuttered breath and his body shook violently.

"Sherlock," he started as he ran his fingers under the water, checking to see if it was warm enough to plug the hole. "What happened to you?" He flicked his fingers and looked at Sherlock with a sad expression. The water ran warm and spread itself around the tub, touching the tips of Sherlock's toes, causing the man to wince because of how raw he felt the water was making him.

"Nothing," he murmured back as he stuck his face in between his knees.

"Bullshit," John retorted as he stood up and walked over to grab what he expected to be a clean rag. The water was rising and pooling itself around the detective and the man seemed more relaxed now. John dropped the rag in the water and started to clean the man, or at least trying to warm him up since he couldn't find any soap. "You can't fool me Sherlock."

"Yes I can," the detective retorted as he shied away from John's touch, but quickly accepted it since the rag was warm and was vibrating his entire body.

"Just tell me you twat," John grumbled as he rubbed the rag across the back of Sherlock's neck. "And where is the soap?"

"I simply took an extra amount of drugs recently and you caught me at a bad time," Sherlock stated tiredly. John noticed how talking was taking everything out of the man but he needed to know. "I think its under the sink." John nodded and dropped the rag into the water. He moved away from Sherlock and opened the small cabinet under the sink. He pulled out a single bar of soap which was alone and looked at Sherlock. The blonde picked the rag back up and wrapped the soap in it, immediately going to clean Sherlock again.

"I caught you at the right time, you're not going to do it again."

"And how do you plan to stop me?" Sherlock asked as he cocked an eyebrow, his body shivering slightly when John moved the man's legs away from him and dipped them in the water.

"I'm going to stay here and I'm going to look after you," John said simply as he moved his hand across Sherlock's chest. He moved his hands lower and stopped. "Think you can clean your extremities?" Sherlock nodded and took the rag from John.

"What about Mary?" He asked as his voice only slightly increased back to its normal state as he came down from his high.

"She left," John said as he leaned over to grab a cup that was on the sink and held Sherlock's toothbrush and John's old one. He dumped them and placed it under the flowing water. "But we're not discussing that right now. We're discussing you. Where did you get it?" Sherlock's eyes had grown wide when he heard that Mary had left John, he pondered as to why but then didn't think much more as John asked him another question.

"Homeless network supplied me with a dealer," he answered honestly as John poured the water on Sherlock's head, making his hair nice and damp. John bounced the cup on Sherlock's head and filled it up again.

"Why did you need a dealer?" He poured another cup of water on the detective and smiled slightly because he looked so weird. "You look like a cat that just fell into a puddle." Sherlock rolled his eyes and threw the rag in John's face. John laughed and caught it before it made an impact. "Don't hit me, you just cleaned your junk!"

"I haven't worked a case in almost three months," he lied simply, hoping John wouldn't catch it.

"Why not?" He took the soap out and rubbed it along his hands. He knew it wasn't shampoo but it was something and Sherlock needed everything clean. John sat the soap down and moved to hover over the dark haired man, his rough fingers going to rub at his scalp. Sherlock groaned because it hurt and was half tempted to swat John's hands away.

"Because none of them have been interesting," he grumbled as he crossed his arms over his chest, acting as if it was some sort of protest. "How's the baby?"

"I don't know," John said as he rubbed even more rougher. "Not talking about me Sherlock." He stopped rubbing the man's scalp and grabbed the cup again. "Close your eyes." Sherlock obliged and fluttered them closed. John poured a cup of water and and ran his fingers through the now shimmering black hair. "You should take a case once you're feeling better."

"You should go make up with your wife," Sherlock stated as he looked up at John, the water running down his face.

"Sherlock, stop. Just let me take care of you and then we'll talk about me," John said as he rubbed little circles in his hair to get all the soap out. "Okay?" Sherlock nodded and John smiled down at him. "Good, can you dry yourself off? Or do you need a few minutes to soak?"

"Go start the chicken noodle soup," Sherlock replied as he pulled his knees up to his chest. He ran his fingers through his hair and let out a sigh. "I need to get back into a normal mindset." John nodded in agreement.

"Call me when you need me," he stated before moving away from Sherlock and out of the door. John made his descent to the kitchen, stopping to take in the state of his living room. His living room, guess he'd already decided he was moving back to Baker Street, probably pick up his old room and set everything up as if Mary had never been a thing. Could he really do that though? His entire life he created with the woman just forgotten, his small child. No, he'd never forget about her, but he'd probably never see her again. He pushed those thoughts away and thought of the living room again. He'd have to clean up the area later because there was no way Sherlock was going to do it. He walked into the kitchen and opened up the cabinets. Three cans of tomato soup and one chicken noodle, two bags of green tea. Just what he figured would be left.

John pulled out the can and a tea bag. He walked over to another cabinet above the oven and pulled out a pot and kettle. He sat them down and lit the stove quickly. The blonde let out a sigh, maybe he shouldn't have come back, although if he didn't would Sherlock have died? Would he hear about it on the news while he himself was wallowing in his own heartache? He couldn't go through that again most likely. Couldn't go through having his best friend being dead. No it was a good thing he was back.

John poured water into the kettle and sat it down, he popped the lid off the can of soup and poured it into the pot. Done, he thought as he smiled down at the food and tea. "Now I just have to wait for it to warm up and I'll get Sherlock," John said to himself as he walked out of the kitchen. He looked about the living room and started to put things back into order. He tugged the knife out of the skull and walked around the room, picking up any glasses or plates he could find. The blonde set them down in the kitchen and marched right back into the living room. "Honestly Sherlock. I was only gone for five months, how is this already a shit hole?" He yelled, not really expecting a reply. He just wanted to talk, the silence was killing him.

The soldier started to hum, it wasn't necessarily a tune but it did help him not focus on thinking too much. He placed Sherlock's chair back in order and gathered up all the discarded clothing and blankets thrown about the living room. He'd have to go to do a load before settling for the night, if he could even sleep. He noticed the pile of wood by the fireplace and threw a few blocks in, trying to bring the fire back from the brink of death.

"John," Sherlock groaned from the bathroom. "I need you." John felt something rise from his chest and he pushed it back down. Sherlock Holmes only needed him to help him get out of the tub, nothing more than that. He walked into the bathroom and saw a sprawled out Sherlock on the floor. He let out a small laugh and moved to help him. The doctor grabbed a towel and placed it around Sherlock's waist.

"Where is your robe?" He asked as he helped Sherlock to sit on the toilet, the detective already starting to shiver again as the cool air brushed right through his thin frame. Sherlock looked at John, his eyes somewhat normal but not back to full life and he went to say something but closed his mouth again. "Sherlock." He rubbed at Sherlock's sides as if to warm him then removed his own jacket. The doctor wrapped it around the detective and made him slip his long arms through them. "I have tea on the burner." He smiled as he saw Sherlock cock a brow.

"Tea sounds good, no one can make it like you," he whispered honestly as he tried to stand up. "My pajamas are in my room, I'd like to slip them on." John didn't know why Sherlock was telling him that till he felt the detective's hands grip the man's shoulders. "Help me get there." John nodded and lifted him up like before, his hand going to rest on the man's hip. He took in Sherlock's smell and was happy that he was at least clean, he still shivered and his entire body was blazing hot but John was one step closer to making the detective right again.

They walked past the living room and Sherlock stopped them to look around. John knew that the man was straining his voice when he talked so when he saw the detective open his mouth he quickly came up with the answer. "It was trashed, I couldn't just leave it like it was. Not when you'll be on a case in a few days." The doctor pulled them into Sherlock's room and the taller man pushed away from him, thinking that he was able to walk again. "Sherlock I don't-" He closed his mouth when the towel fell from Sherlock's hips and John got a good look of the man's ass. He looked away quickly and walked out of the room. "If you can walk then you can dress yourself. Come out into the living room and take a seat on the couch, the soup will be ready by then." The slight whistle could be heard about the flat and John walked back to the kitchen, taking the kettle off. He sat a cup down from one of the cabinet and placed a bag inside. He poured the hot water inside and looked to see Sherlock take a spot on the couch.

The man's clothes looked too big on him and John let out a sigh. "How long has it been since you last ate?"

"I think it was a Tuesday," Sherlock said just loud enough for John to hear. The doctor nodded. Okay, so at least six days considering it was Tuesday today. He poured the soup into a bowl and grabbed the cup. John made his descent into the living room and sat down beside the frail man. "Drink the tea first." He handed Sherlock the cup and watched as he held it with both hands. He was so white, which was a little concerning for the doctor. John noticed that Sherlock had slipped John's jacket on over his clothes and he couldn't help the small smile that formed on his lips. "So you haven't had a case in three months?" Sherlock nodded. "What was the last thing you worked on?"

"I'm not sure, something stupid," Sherlock said as he sipped at his tea. John nodded.

"Right."

"Why did you come here? I mean, if Mary left why didn't you just stay home?" John clenched his jaw and his mouth formed to a thin line.

"I couldn't stay there, it didn't feel like a home."

"And this place does?" John nodded and grabbed the cup from Sherlock's grasp. "Now eat your soup." The doctor placed the bowl in Sherlock's hands and ran his fingers slightly through the detective's slightly curling dark hair. John coughed and stood up, clenching his fists as he did so. "I'm going to tell Mrs. Hudson that I'll be moving back in for the time being, but only if its okay with you."

Sherlock looked up at John with big eyes as he took in a small sip of the soup. He opened his mouth to say something, probably a retort or a question as to why John was back, but he snapped his mouth shut. John never found out what Sherlock was going to say. He nodded and looked back down at the soup, settling himself more comfortably on the couch.


End file.
